The result of philosophical conversations in the drizzling rain at 1:00 AM. [Edited]

[I just wrote this poem. I'm sure it needs a lot of editing. But I'm going to go ahead and share it before my better judgement prevents me from doing so.]

You are the devil at my left shoulder,

Leaned back against the bench

As you draw from your pipe,

Smoldering languid, casual.

Soft plumes

Of smoke drift up - sweet miasma

In night's black expanse.

Above us cloud tufts pass, changing

Over the constant moon - ever distorting,

Ever re-shaping its image as it looms, distant above.

And the moon is never the same

Or exactly explained

By what we can see of it,

In a single moment under starless expanse,

Suspended with the effervescent ping

Of invisible water flecks on skin.

Always there is a thin veil

Shrouding its full,

Luminescence.

You wax calmly about Kierkegaard,

Existential philosophy,

The downfall of Marxist theory;

About how you don't believe

In objective reality,

Or any collective human identity.

Beside you in the dark I hope

For some sign of your belief in my own

Fragile reality; want you to touch me warm,

Touch me soft under the smothering

Canvas of dark, amidst the faint hiss

Of smoke diffusing through light rain.

You depress me more than anyone

I have ever known. And still,

I see the luster of your lips in moonlight,

The firm angle of your jaw,

And wonder how it would feel

To brush lightly, lips over your brow,

Across the satin of your skin,

And blossom for you, the throbbing,

White-hot reality of my presence.

I shiver next to you in the dark.

I gaze up at the sky for a shard

Of escaping light,

As the fog obscures the moon.

--Alicia (2010)

Yes, I am blogging about Project Runway.

A new season of Project Runway premiered two weeks ago. And this time, Tim Gunn has a clear favorite, who also happens to be my favorite (in my supremely limited knowledge of fashion - I really only watch this show for the antics). His name is Mondo Guerra. He's kind of eccentric, and more than a little shy. Mondo is cool. I don't think he knows how cool he is.

In last night's episode, they aired a clip of Mondo getting really emotional during one of his interviews, talking about how lonely he is. I've never seen Project Runway (or any reality show, for that matter) air such a genuine, heart-wrenching interview. It was actually kind of uncomfortable to watch.

Mondo said something along the lines of:

"I need a connection to be whole, and I haven't found that with anyone really. I am alone with my thoughts too much, and they just eat away at me. I am all alone, and I just want to be loved for who I am, but it's what I create that I need to be loved and appreciated. I am so creative with this gift and I am cursed with always having to create to get by and be noticed."

Sometimes our gifts can become curses. Sometimes they can define us in an upsetting way.

Mondo doesn't feel like he's connecting with any of the other designers. He doesn't feel like he's ever been loved for who he really is. Instead, it's always about what he can create. I feel for this guy. I have felt this way before about singing. I hope he's ok.

In other news, this week I had my last voice lesson for the next five months. I am SO excited for the break. I think it's going to be refreshing to concentrate on English.

New Blog!

I have a new blog for England Semester!

http://aarchambault.wordpress.com/

Don't worry...I'm still keeping this one. I'll continue writing in it after I'm back. But in the meantime, the new blog is a good way to share what I'm experiencing in the UK (because a lot of people don't know about this blog :).

Until next time, cheerio!

Of course not.

Almanac

by Carl Sandburg

Scrutinize the Scorpion constellation

and see where a hook of stars

ends with a lonely star.

Go to the grey sea horizon

and ask for a message

and listen and wait.

See whether the conundrums

of a heavy land fog

either sing or talk.

Let only a small cry come

in behalf of a clean sunrise:

the sun performs so often.

Speak to the branches of spring

and the surprise of blossoms:

they too hope for a good year.

Search the first winter snowstorm

for a symphonic arrangement:

it is always there.

Take an alphabet of gold or mud and spell

as you wish any words: kiss me, kill me,

love, hate, ice, thought, victory.

Read the numbers on your wrist watch

and ask: is being born, being loved,

being dead, nothing but numbers?

[See title of post.]

--

Also, I wonder...

When did I stop thinking in paragraphs

and start thinking in poems?

Is this some weird form of ADD?

Noteworthy quote from my dad:

"Love is patient, love is kind.

Love means slowly losing your mind."

haha

If you haven't met my dad, he's pretty much the best.

Update:

Another quote from my dad...

When asked about getting a facebook: "No, I wouldn't talk to anyone. I'm just your garden variety stalker."

When the time comes to leave, just walk away quietly and don’t make any fuss.

--Banksy

Life has been teaching me how to do this lately.

Walt Whitman knew what was up.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,

I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood, isolated,

Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my Soul.

--Walt Whitman (1900)

Mozart

It was only fitting that the child prodigy should die
before fruition,
before age stole his verve and dried his mind as a raisin
in desert sun,
before years carved bitter lines, like rivers
into porcelain skin,
before he gave the world all that he had, and was left
without a melody.

Instead he left at the height of an era, his eon,
a Requiem Unfinished;
unheard and unwasted on dying ears.

He surrendered to the earthen enemy, Time,
thirty-five years still young,
as a star crumples on itself, then expands.
It explodes in its cataclysmic
infancy and is lost, having left all of its light so hastily,
forcefully at once.

And then the dark.

--Alicia (2010)

Jealousy

Her fingers danced across his shoulder,

traced a line up the back of his neck, and

brushed through locks of umber brown.

Wry lip corners curved upward, behind

the frame of her shining blonde's arc,

as his eyes fixed and smiled on hers.

My neck muscles tightened as I

let out a silent scream,

muffled by tongue and cheek.

--Alicia (2010)

Nocturne in D Flat Major

I can’t stop listening

to 
Chopin’s Nocturne in D flat major.

Quietly forceful, lyrical, sad,

it reminds me of you.

Staring at my computer screen

in an empty coffee shop at dusk,

I can’t force myself to write

my Music History paper.

There is nothing for me to say

about Mozart’s harmonic structure.

All I have is a list of things

unsaid on that last afternoon

as I stared into your ocean blue,

right across the table and close

enough to touch. But I

was terrified and could not make

the invisible wall between us

disappear. I could not tell you that

I want you more than a melody,

more than a breath; not for me, but for

your lovely soft blue, and for all

there is to know behind it.

The air hung, static,

screaming in my silence. I opened

my mouth to speak and felt

my lungs touch, deflated and dry.

I don’t think that you knew.

And now, as I gaze at the

vacant chair across from me,

its emptiness is smothering.

As Chopin’s melody rises,

pulsing strident to its climax,

I realize that this is the last crescendo

before its final cadence, and soon

I will sit aching in the silence.

And I am not ready

for it to end.


--Alicia (2010)

In the quiet dark of night, alone (Edited)

In the quiet dark of night, alone

I sat and wondered at this life, which

frustrated the knowledge of wise men

and the irony of Fools;

us wise fools,

living in a strand of incoherent musing,

revolving hazy on this celestial sphere,

round thoughts, lives, and cosmological constructs:

primordial gasses mixed with an inexplicable Something,

which is explained: divine.

Divine and nothing,

out of nothing,

formless and void,

formed

in the depths of nothing,

in the shadow which crept along

the edge of a glistening web of star:

star dust and star ashes,

from dust to life,

we are.

We form out lives, logical and succinct,

squeeze the inexplicable world

into explanations of nothing,

as loss blunts the edges of our star-crossed passions.

We learn to love those humble melodies we trace

along the listless drone of the metronome, Time.

We do not waste life wanting things we cannot-

lusting things we should not-

And we do not concern ourselves with higher things.

For the Lord is our shepherd,

we shall not want.

And yet . . .

--Alicia (2009)

Why do you sing?

Today I received possibly the best compliment about my singing that I've ever been given.

I sang my concerto piece (O Quante Volte) with Westmont's orchestra this weekend. After today's concert, an older man (of about 80 years) walked up to me and introduced himself. He told me that he has always loved classical music and enjoyed listening to orchestral music. But he's always hated opera, and whenever he would listen to classical radio stations and any opera would come on, he would turn the station. He told me that my singing changed his whole outlook on opera, and that I opened his eyes to the beauty in it.

I haven't been all that inspired about music lately. I struggle with the feeling that it was never my choice to pursue music - that it was just decided for me by everyone else that it was what I wanted to do with my life. I don't enjoy the vulnerability that comes with performing, and I've often felt like a slave to my talent (as melodramatic as that may sound). But I've gone along with it because part of me is afraid of being "wasted talent."

I participated in the Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions this past fall. It's a pretty intense vocal competition (one that I don't think I was ready for). After it was over, I had the opportunity to get feedback from the judges. One of them asked me a simple question:

"Why do you sing?"

I didn't have an answer for him. It was actually pretty embarrassing, how much this simple question made me doubt my motives. It made me wonder if I only sing because I'm good at it - and because it's what has always been expected of me.

After talking with that older man today though, I think I figured out what keeps me singing.

I remember when I was in middle school, I would sit on the floor in my room, listening to recordings of Kiri Te Kanawa, Maria Callas, Kathleen Battle, and all of these gorgeous sopranos, in awe of each unique voice. I would go from aria to aria for hours (as nerdy as that sounds), amazed at the things they could do. I've always loved listening to opera, and practicing what I could do with my own voice. I've struggled with performing, though. This is partly because acting is awkward for me, and partly because I spent a long time not liking the sound of my own voice. But now that I'm over being insecure and comparing my voice to this un-attainable ideal in my head, I realize that even though I don't always enjoy performing and being so vulnerable in front of people, I do it because I want people to feel what I feel when I listen to opera.

I know that opera can be brash and obnoxious - especially the nationalistic opera of Wagner and Strauss, which is what people usually imagine when they think of opera, crazy ladies with viking helmets and such. (Part of me is afraid of being associated with that.) But opera can also be completely divine, like the Bel Canto arias from 17th c. Italy. There can be such agility, subtlety and gorgeous expression in the human voice. I want to share the wonder that I feel, listening to the instrument which God creates uniquely in each person. Singing is a beautiful, more heightened form of expression amidst otherwise mundane, uninspired life. I want to share that with people.

And that is why I sing.

Salt and Pepper

Measure the world up to size,

categorize and classify.

Sort and label:

salt from pepper,

sugar from salt.

All kept at a comfortable

distance - shelved

in their places and

labeled distinctly,

for free-functioning life.

I don’t fit into your salt and pepper paradigm.

Spilled my grainy substance through

table cracks and mixed,

irreparably,

foreign matter with mine.

I’m strange. All too strange for you.

--Alicia (2010)

"The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."

-John Milton (Paradise Lost)

Interesting quote

"Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist." -George Carlin   

I somewhat agree with this. 

Ok, that's all. 

I'm going to sleep at a reasonable hour tonight! :D   

Edit: here's Mike's response to this post.

How not to be a woman:

Lately I've been thinking about femininity and what it means to be a woman.

20 is an awkward age. People start referring to you as a woman (provided that you are female, I guess). But for me at least, the title always sounds weird.

Part of the oddity in being called a woman is that I'm not exactly sure what it means to be a woman. I was thinking about this the other day. Then when I arrived at my voice lesson, my voice teacher and her accompanist were talking about a friend who majored in Women's Studies at UC Santa Cruz. My voice teacher, who is around 80 years old, thought the whole idea of Women's Studies was ridiculous. She said something like, "In my day nobody had to teach you how to be a woman. These things were common knowledge." (I thought this was a funny comment. :) Then her accompanist, who is rather conservative, chimed in, "No, Women's Studies is really the opposite. It's basically learning how not to be a woman."

Though I value Women's Studies and don't completely agree with her statement, it made me think. In a certain sense, she's right. Modern ideology teaches women "how not to be women," in that it questions the standardized schema for the female sex which society had originally constructed. (Yet in certain ways women are still objectified...) Don't get me wrong, I'm all for empowerment and equality. I think that it's healthy to question societal norms, because having to mold yourself to fit any kind of "role" can be crippling. But in the case of femininity, what is the cost of questioning the status quo? Does too much empowerment and not enough "femininity" cause marriages and relationships to fail (or never even begin in the first place)?

How can a woman be empowered and still be feminine?

I'm not the kind of person who cheapens myself, dumbs myself down, or pretends to operate on surface-level. But most guys are intimidated by intelligence and confidence, even if it's understated. And honestly, most choose to date girls who are simple and surfacey. Though I do recognize that not every guy is looking for the same thing in a relationship and that this is not always the case, it seems to be the trend. And as a female, it's almost like you're left with the choice of either being the smart girl who ends up lonely, or the surfacey girl who everyone loves. And if you're not satisfied with either choice, you find yourself trying to be everything: empowered yet passive, vocal yet submissive, equality-minded yet role-conscious, contemplative yet carefree. And in my case at least, you over-analyze your behavior so much that you end up silent most of the time. I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not, so I don't dumb myself down. But at the same time I don't want to steamroll over people. So a lot of the time, I say nothing. (This doesn't happen all the time. But it's gotten worse since I started going to Westmont.) Silence obviously isn't the answer though. In the overly-quoted, yet still insightful words of Marianne Williamson:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

This seems to be a more constructive mindset. And it's a welcome reminder. I'm personally sick of watering myself down, trying to play two parts, and worrying about how I come across to people. I think maybe the key in this whole gender issue is to not dwell on it so much. Because sometimes when you dwell on difference and prejudice, you end up highlighting the difference and alienating people from one another so that they learn to expect the prejudice.

Thoughts?

Question?

I've been thinking about this lately, and I want to get different people's perspectives.

I read The Birth of Tragedy (by Nietzsche) for my Theory and Criticism in The Arts class last semester. It was about the role of Apollinian (logical) and Dionysian (emotional) tendencies in the formation of Attic Tragedy (art). It got me thinking about the relationship between logic and emotion. We had to write personal responses for our reading in this class. I've posted parts of my response to Nietzsche's essay below for some background:

"Nietzsche argues an interesting kind of dualism between Apollinian and Dionysian tendencies. First he establishes a dichotomy between the two, then he explains how each run parallel to the other as essential parts in the formation of Attic tragedy. He tells us that Apollo rules the world of dreams as the deity of light. Apollo grants clarity of sight with “measured restraint” of such illusions, providing a firm grasp of reality and “freedom from the wilder emotions.” When Nietzsche speaks of Apollo, he speaks of logic. On the other hand, he claims that the nature of the Dionysian emerges at the collapse of this grasp on logic and controlled restraint. It is the spirit of intoxication, the freedom that results from handing the spirit over to emotion. Nietzsche has set the forces of logic and emotion in opposition.

[...blah, blah, blah...]

"Nietzsche’s argument broke down when he started to commend the dual nature of Aeschylus’ Prometheus. He says that it is both Apollinian and Dionysian in nature because its central message states, “all that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both.” This statement wrongly alienates logic and emotion from one another. By suggesting this kind of duality between the forces of reason and feeling, Nietzsche sets the two in opposition. In this act of pitting the two principles against each other, he inevitably implies that one is better than the other. Equality is no longer possible, and Nietzsche's logic nullifies all that he has been arguing about the interplay of emotion and logic.

Nietzsche is right to say that the art of tragedy involves both emotion and logic. He fails to recognize, though, that emotion cannot be separated from logic, nor logic from emotion. They both exist together as cognitive processes in the mind of individuals. And so they coexist in the world, not as dueling, opposing forces, but as one wedded force."

I've gone back and forth on this issue since I wrote the above response. People always talk about logic and emotion like they're polar opposites. For example, certain personality tests will tell you that you're either ruled by logic or emotion...you're either a "thinker," or a "feeler." (Just a side note: this bothers me as someone who falls in between the two preferences.) But can't emotion influence a person's logic (and their logic, their emotions)? Isn't emotion a cognitive process, experienced in the same mind as logic?

So my question: do you think that logic and emotion are completely unrelated to each other ("mutually exclusive," to borrow a favorite phrase of Kelsey's :), or are they inseparable?

--

And now, completely unrelated:

With her pro photo skills, Mae Leah took some headshots for me to use for the Met Opera National Council Auditions this fall (a competition I'm entering to gain some audition experience). I don't have them all yet, but here are a couple. I'm not sure which one I want to use, and I don't have all of them yet, but I like them so far. I'm wondering which should I use out of these three:

Feedback, yes? Please and thank you.

Ah, insomnia...

I'm having trouble falling asleep, as usual. Tonight I went to bed feeling anxious about a bunch of stuff, and I couldn't relax. Lately, I haven't had much of a desire to read the Bible. So I haven't been, aside from a few exceptions. (I desire the discipline to be consistent and the peace that comes with consistency. But sometimes I push myself so hard in other areas of my life that my relationship with God becomes an afterthought. I'm saying this because I don't want to give the false impression that I have this thing together...because I really don't.)

Anyway, tonight was one of those exceptions. Because I couldn't sleep I got up and read Psalm 39 (from the NRSV). It's a really perplexing Psalm, but in an odd way it spoke to me. The psalmist articulated almost exactly what I'm feeling right now, and it was a much needed dose of perspective (in a different sort of way).

So I thought I'd share it:

--

Psalm 39

To the leader: to Jeduthun. A Psalm of David.
¹I said, ‘I will guard my ways
   that I may not sin with my tongue;
I will keep a muzzle on my mouth
   as long as the wicked are in my presence.’ 
²I was silent and still;
   I held my peace to no avail;
my distress grew worse, 
³   my heart became hot within me.
While I mused, the fire burned;
   then I spoke with my tongue: 

⁴‘Lord, let me know my end,
   and what is the measure of my days;
   let me know how fleeting my life is. 
⁵You have made my days a few handbreadths,
   and my lifetime is as nothing in your sight.
Surely everyone stands as a mere breath. 
          Selah 
⁶   Surely everyone goes about like a shadow.
Surely for nothing they are in turmoil;
   they heap up, and do not know who will gather. 

⁷‘And now, O Lord, what do I wait for?
   My hope is in you. 
⁸Deliver me from all my transgressions.
   Do not make me the scorn of the fool. 
⁹I am silent; I do not open my mouth,
   for it is you who have done it. 
¹⁰Remove your stroke from me;
   I am worn down by the blows of your hand. 

¹¹‘You chastise mortals
   in punishment for sin,
consuming like a moth what is dear to them;
   surely everyone is a mere breath. 
          Selah

¹²‘Hear my prayer, O Lord,
   and give ear to my cry;
   do not hold your peace at my tears.
For I am your passing guest,
   an alien, like all my forebears. 
¹³Turn your gaze away from me, that I may smile again,
   before I depart and am no more.’

This is the way the year ends

V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea 
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
and the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

--T.S. Eliot (from "The Hollow Men")

Paradigm shift...

of the good sort. I feel new these days.

I realize that this is vague, and that I haven't written in a while.

I'll elaborate later?

Ok seriously...this needs to end.

I have a new pet-peeve:

It's the Christianese phrase "love on." As in, "we're just gonna go love on them...etc." It's usually used when describing short term missions endeavors to people at church.

My problem with it: it sounds wrong, and its users sound slightly crazy when they say it. What even does it mean? What exactly does "loving on" someone involve? Did we ever define it?

I think it's just one of those phrases that everyone picks up because they hear other people saying it. And in that process, it's come to mean something different to each person. This bugs me. I know that all language is subjective, but Christians need to work at defining their words and think about how much jargon is helpful and how much is harmful.

I can't be the only one who's disturbed by "loving on." It's such a weird thing to say...

I am not a fan of Robert Frost.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost

I'm not a fan of Robert Frost. I've always thought that his poetry was simple and a little boring. Maybe it's me, but I can't really derive any kind of profound deeper meaning from most of his writing...most of his writing.

But this poem's last stanza has been echoing in my head a lot lately. I have to admit, I like it. I can relate to it:

The woods are lovely and perplexing. I'd like to stop and contemplate them; figure it all out. But I've got miles to go and obligations to fulfill. There is simply no time: No time to contemplate. No time to sleep.

Man, I'm such a freaking English major...

Words, words, words.

When I saw that The Great Gatsby was one of the books we were supposed to read in my Major American Writers class, I was annoyed. I read it in high school, didn't really like it, and dismissed it as "one of those high school books." But now I'm noticing how much depth I missed.

Here's the end of Chapter 6:

"He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was...

...One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees- he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.

His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy's white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.

Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something- an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever."

This is brilliant.

In other news, I'm coming home this weekend.

Christian Hedonism?

I'm reading Desiring God by John Piper. So far it's been really interesting. He's arguing Christian Hedonism, which sounds really weird at first. But so far it makes sense. Here's his philosophy:

1. The longing to be happy is a universal human experience, and it is good, not sinful.

2. We should never try to deny or resist our longing to be happy, as though it were a bad impulse. Instead, we should seek to intensify this longing and nourish it with whatever will provide the deepest and most enduring satisfaction.

3. The deepest and most enduring happiness is found only in God. Not from God, but in God.

4. The happiness we find in God reaches its consummation when it is shared with others in the manifold ways of love.

5. To the extent that we try to abandon the pursuit of our own pleasure, we fail to honor God and love people. Or, to put it positively: The pursuit of pleasure is a necessary part of all worship and virtue. That is:

The chief end of man is to glorify God by enjoying Him forever.

Sounds pretty freeing to me. So far, I'm intrigued. Lately I feel like my desires are really complex and convoluted. I don't really know what I want anymore. I had come to the conclusion that it didn't really matter, that ultimately my desires didn't matter. But I'm reconsidering that. Pure and simple desires...I guess that's what I hope I'll develop in the next coming season. New Years resolution, anyone?

Will I become a Christian Hedonist? We'll see...

Also, What Dreams May Come is a really good movie. If you're into visual movies, and metaphysical stuff, I recommend it!

Sea, sand and sky

The sun licks the sea

Its waves orange and black

Laughing,

Their lapping fringe rolling back

Rippling fingers

Probe glistening sand

In sweeping stream

They wander wet land

Sucked under

With current in rhythmic flow

They shimmer and leap

In luminous glow

As if I'd squeezed the sky

Luscious orange in my hands

Sparkling pearls of juice drip,

Land afloat milky gray

If only I could drink the sea

Thick Creamsicle foam,

Loose myself within

Lustrous swells of passion aglow

--Alicia (2008)

(Butterfly Beach, Santa Barbara)